The Harbinger

by Mark Graham

  “Nigel,” they heard Merry cry. “It’s not what you—”

  An explosion of gunfire drowned out the words. A deafening blow of silence followed. And then the crack of the telephone hitting the metal desk, shuffling feet, indistinguishable voices, an unseen hand replacing the receiver on the cradle, the hum of a broken connection.

  “My God,” Delaney whispered. She grasped Mansell ‘s hands.

  “He’s dead. Just like that. Dead. And he couldn’t even finish his goddamn message. We don’t even know when. He died for nothing.”

  “No. No, that’s not true,” Delaney said coolly. She drew away, peering into his eyes. “It’s Tuesday. The strikes. My God, Nigel, they’re all striking. The miners, the dockers, all of them. Tuesday night. I should have said something, but . . .”

  Momentarily forgotten, the answering machine had continued to play, and Delaney was interrupted by the sounding of the tone.

  “Mansell,” the tape began, “the house you’re standing in will be under siege in a matter of minutes. I would suggest that you get out of there now. Erase this segment of the tape and get the hell out of there.”

  “That voice!” Mansell exclaimed, realizing the truth of the message. “I know that voice.”

  Quickly, he rewound the tape. He listened to the message a second time, took the cassette out of the machine without erasing either segment, and slipped it into his pocket.

  He took Delaney’s hand and led her down the stairs to the guest room. “They’ll trace Merry’s message. And if I know Security, it won’t take long.”

  They gathered clothes, a briefcase, and a handbag. They raced up the stairs to the rear entrance.

  “No,” Mansell decided. “The other way.”

  Hands clasped, they retraced their steps to the front room. Peering through the curtains, Mansell surveyed the street and found it deserted. Keys readied, they stepped out the front door and walked down the drive to the Clavers’ Porsche. One key unlocked the doors. A second key engaged the engine. “Don’t rush,” Mansell whispered.

  He backed into the street and headed north. At the intersection of Northview and Cherrywood, they were forced to the side of the road as two police cars with lights flashing swept around the corner.

  Once they had passed, Mansell pulled into the intersection. He saw two unmarked cars dashing down the alley. In the rearview mirror, he watched as four black-and-whites formed a barricade around John Claver’s house.

  Two blocks further on, he turned left onto Lancaster and then again onto Burton. As they approached Newton Park, Mansell bypassed the N2 freeway exchange in favor of the M 15 secondary road a kilometer ahead. He swept brashly around the arm of the cloverleaf and headed southeast out of town.

  “You didn’t kill Steven de Villiers, did you?” Delaney said, the words catching in her throat.

  “No, Delaney, I didn’t,” Mansell answered woodenly. The horizon captured his attention. Heat mirage danced across the highway, mesmerizing him. He explained about the stolen gun, the rental car, and the phony witness, and, for the first time, he considered what probably happened that day in Johannesburg when Delaney was accosted by Security Branch. He glanced in her direction. “I imagine the minister of justice is a highly persuasive man.”

  Delaney hid her surprise. “Don’t embarrass me.”

  “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

  “Then don’t patronize me.”

  “I think it’s more than patronization, Delaney.”

  “I know. I know. But . . .” She touched his arm. “After Amanda died. After my husband fell in love with the bottle. And before I forgot what a miserable ally self-pity can be, I was introduced to Cecil Leistner. At a cocktail party in Durban. He . . . we . . .”

  “Yes, I know . . . about that.” He peered into dark, sad eyes.

  Had anything ever mattered less than that, he thought, or more than this? “I understand.”

  She touched his arm again. “Nigel. What Merry said. About the mines. He died believing in it. You know?”

  Mansell kept his eyes on the road. No, I don’t know, he told himself, fishing for a cigarette.

  The Porsche breezed through a hairpin turn, and M15 dropped into a low, flat plain with fertile farms and grazing horses. Delaney said no more about it. Ahead, a thick stand of cottonwoods hovered along the banks of the Baakens River. A narrow bridge signaled their exit from Sunridge Park into the township of Lorraine. They followed the highway for another two kilometers until they came to Theescombe. At the edge of this tiny town, Mansell pulled into the gas station where Joshua had first located the Honda Civic used by Fredrik Steiner.

  He parked the Porsche toward the rear of the station next to the rest rooms. As they were climbing out, Bobby Verwaal sauntered around the corner wiping grease from his hands and chewing on the short end of a stogie.

  He gave the Porsche an indifferent stare and grunted. “So it’s you again.”

  “Yes, Inspector Mansell.” They shook hands. Mansell introduced Delaney, and a crooked smile split the Afrikaner’s face.

  “Saw in the papers that you found that hustler you was looking for, except it looked like somebody else found him first.”

  “Vigilantes,” Mansell said, putting an arm around the attendant’s shoulders. “Tell me about the narrow-gauge, Mr. Verwaal. When does the next outbound train leave, do you know?”

  Bobby Verwaal peeked shyly over at Delaney. His crooked smile turned into a broken laugh. “You’re in luck, Inspector. Not long. Let’s go inside and get the pretty lady something cold to drink and we’ll check the schedule.”

  “Not long” meant fifteen minutes, and the 1:20 out of Port Elizabeth was always on time, Bobby Verwaal told them.

  “Fine,” Mansell said, peeling off R25 from his money clip. “The Porsche. Can I store it with you for a couple of days? It’s a bit of a sticky matter, I’m afraid. You know how a car like that draws attention.”

  “I do indeed,” said the attendant, accepting the money with the proper dose of reluctance. “Just happen to have an empty stall out back. Probably keep away most of the nosy folk that might come snooping hereabouts.”

  Mansell extracted another twenty-five rand from the clip. “Will this cover a lock and key?”

  “And a lift to the train depot,” answered Bobby Verwaal.

  ****

  I’m afraid he slipped through their fingers,” Leistner said. “He knew. Somehow, he knew.”

  “Mansell’s no fool,” Koster said carefully. “If he heard the message, which we can assume he did, then he probably anticipated the trace, too.”

  Their eyes met. “The eggs on their plates were still warm.” “He’s not alone, then.”

  “Apparently not. The police are taking prints now.” It had to be Delaney, Leistner knew that. Could I have misjudged her? he wondered. No, she’s not the kind to let an opportunity slip away, and if she’s still with him, then there’s still a chance. Yes. I must not miss her call tonight. “He escaped in a metallic-blue Porsche. Arrogant bastard.”

  “Not for long. It’s too obvious.”

  “We’ll have men at every artery leading out of Port Elizabeth by now, and choppers watching the roads. The train stations, the airports, the ports. They’ll all be under surveillance. We’ll find him.”

  “Yes, but the question is not how he’s traveling, but where. The man’s under a federal warrant for first-degree murder. That puts him at odds with every cop in the country.”

  “He’ll go to the media, of course. One of the English papers. The Argus or the Daily Mail. Or somebody from the west, perhaps. Time or Newsweek.”

  Koster took his time, shrugging. “But with what? He’s dealing in rumors, not facts. How much can he really know?”

  “He knew enough to dig out Jaap Schwedler in Pampoenpoort, and he knew enough to dig out Cyprian Jurgen in Pretoria. He’s heard my name mentioned in connection with East Fields, and he knows that American weapons were smuggled into Port El
izabeth and taken to East Fields.” Leistner toyed with his pipe, almost leisurely. He struck a match and smoke mushroomed overhead. “He knows plenty, but the guns might just be his weak spot. Mansell, for all his cleverness, never did report the discovery of those guns, did he?”

  ****

  One hundred and forty kilometers out of Port Elizabeth, on the floor of a wide vale alive with cactus, aloes, and herds of Angora goats, the train slowed. The town of Klipplaat, population 3,121, prepared for the afternoon arrival of the narrow-gauge.

  The conductor made his announcement, and the train stopped a half kilometer from the station beside a water tower. Mansell cracked the window and peered out at the station ahead. He saw six uniformed policemen pacing uneasily along the platform. His trained eye also spotted a pair of plainclothesmen braced against a pillar, scanning folded newspapers and chewing toothpicks.

  He took Delaney by the hand. They stepped onto the platform between cars and jumped off the train on the left side. Directly across the tracks was a huge feedlot, a corral filled with Herefords, three grain elevators, and a series of broken-down sheds. Beyond the sheds stood a brick warehouse and a four-story office building, and, further yet, tree-lined streets and clapboard houses built on rolling knolls.

  The train moved again just as they reached the far side of the feedlot. A dirt path littered with sheep manure led past the sheds to the office building. An Office Space for Rent sign was plastered across the lobby window.

  They went inside. The walls were a dusty cream color. A water stain shaped like an oil derrick sagged beneath a whining air-conditioner. The receptionist wore curlers in her hair, turquoise jewelry on every finger, and was reading Sun City magazine.

  Delaney offered a cool smile. “The office space for rent. How large is that, please?”

  The receptionist blew her nose. “A hundred and twenty square meters, as is.”

  “We’ll take a look, if we may?”

  Exuding exasperation, the receptionist propelled her chair across the floor to a filing cabinet. She produced a key from inside, rolled back to the counter, and handed it to Delaney. “Third floor. Room 303. Help yourself.”

  The empty office looked down on the station. A dozen passengers disembarked. Seven or eight others boarded. Four of the uniformed policemen circled the train. The plainclothesmen boarded near the locomotive, while the other uniforms worked their way through from the caboose.

  Ten minutes later, both pairs emerged near the center of the train. One plainclothesman waved in the direction of the locomotive, and Mansell saw the engineer signal in return. The whistle sounded. The train lurched forward. When it cleared the station yard, the policemen dispersed.

  Delaney returned the key, announcing that the space wasn’t quite what they were looking for. They located a phone booth, and Mansell checked the local directory. The nearest car dealership was in Jansen-ville. Reasoning that the local police would be under orders to keep tabs on all car-rental establishments, he set out for the center of town in search of a garage or a gas station.

  It was early evening when he came upon a ramshackle garage with the Sign TURLEY’S AUTOMOTIVE-BODY WORK AND ENGINE REPAIR.

  The stalls were empty. Two men in greasy overalls sat in a small office smoking. A wall calendar from A-G Parts Supply featured a buxom blonde in a two-piece bathing suit holding a wrench next to her crotch.

  Mansell tapped on the door and walked in. “Good evening, gentlemen.

  The two men—an Afrikaner, by his oval, reddish face, and a lanky black—stared at one another. The Afrikaner said, “He talking to us?”

  “Gentlemen, he said,” answered the black.

  “Must be us, then.”

  They both howled. Mansell endured the joke with a thin smile, and then said, “I need to hire a car to Jansenville.”

  “Hire?” asked the Afrikaner suspiciously.

  “Someone to drive two people as far as Jansenville. My car’s there now. The rental agency won’t give me a one-way. Bastards tried to rape me for seventy-five rand for a driver. I thought I could do better.”

  “How much better?” inquired the black man, standing.

  Mansell offered him a Camel. He lit one himself. “Twenty-five rand is my offer.”

  “Fifty and you’ve got a deal.”

  Shaking his head, Mansell countered, “Twenty-five plus gas both “

  ways.

  “Let’s take a ride.”

  ****

  Cecil Leistner sat in a leather-bound chair surrounded by oak bookshelves filled with hardbound books and a library of classic film originals. A Waterford tumbler, set atop a marble-faced side table, held twelve-year-old K.W.V. brandy, heated to perfection.

  A call from the police commissioner, ten minutes earlier, had informed Leistner that John Claver’s Audi 5000 had been located in an alley off Lancaster Avenue in Port Elizabeth. The blue Porsche 911 had been found in storage in Theescombe. The commissioner also said that Mansell and a female companion had boarded an eastbound train there at 1:20 in the afternoon. Security Branch offices along the route had been notified and a full-scale search was now proceeding from Kirkwood east to Klipplaat and as far north as GraafReinet. Both were still at large.

  Leistner pushed aside the brandy, grimacing. He checked the clock on the far wall. It was 9:10. He glanced at the telephone sitting on the side table an arm’s length away and it rang.

  “At last,” he whispered.

  Leistner activated the tracing module and the tape machine and picked up the receiver.

  “Delaney, I’ve been waiting for your call,” he said.

  “It’s Daniel Hunter, Minister.”

  “Hunter? Excuse me.” Leistner deactivated the tracing device. He drank from his brandy, heavy gulps that pushed the tentacles of panic momentarily from his stomach. “My apologies, Daniel. I was expecting another call.”

  “You asked me to call on Sunday, I believe, sir.”

  “Yes I did, of course. What news?”

  “Our appointment for Tuesday evening has been confirmed, Minister,” the Affiliated Union president said. “Every preparation that can be made, has.”

  “Very good, Daniel. Likewise from this end. Thank you.”

  ****

  The two-lane road between Klipplaat and Jansenville spanned twenty-nine kilometers of low-lying hills covered with sage and cactus. The ‘64 pickup covered the distance in forty minutes. Mansell paid the driver R30 and was extremely pleased to see him stop in front of the White Owl Tavern on his way back down the main drag.

  Jansenville was, in many ways, a carbon copy of its neighbor, though not on the route of the narrow-gauge and thus a shade less prosperous.

  Mansell found the city’s one and only car dealership, a Ford New and Used, on the edge of town next to the Angora Inn. The blue-and-white oval sign out front was a mere shadow in the dark. A padlock hung from the door. A Closed sign dangled across the window.

  Delaney shaded her eyes and peered through the front window. A single light illuminated a shoe-box office beyond the showroom, and she saw a man leaning across a metal desk going through the drawers.

  “There’s someone in there,” she announced, knocking on the glass. “A nonchalant thief or a disorganized proprietor. I can’t tell which.”

  The man struggled up from the desk, walked halfway across the showroom floor, and squinted toward the window. Finally, he waddled penguinlike toward the door, an immense girth jiggling as he moved. He waved his hands and shook his head.

  “We’re closed,” he hollered, pointing at the sign. “I’m sorry. Closed for the night.”

  He wheeled away, and Mansell banged heavily on the window. The glass shook in protest. The proprietor pulled up and glanced over his shoulder. Mansell pressed his shield against the pane.

  “Open the door,” he ordered.

  The man lumbered forward. Keys rattled nervously in the lock, and the door caved in. “What is it, officer? We’re closed for the night.”

/>   Mansell shook his head. He replaced the badge, and said, “Inspector Mansell, Security Branch, Cape Province. Mr. . . .?”

  “Nathan Wolfaardt.” Beads of perspiration, like dew on a chilled bottle of beer, popped off the proprietor’s brow. He smelled of cheese popcorn and sudden paranoia.

  “Mr. Wolfaardt. It’s late, I know that.” Placate, but never apologize: a Security Branch maxim. “We’ve got some problems over in Klipplaat. I need an automobile for the night. The department will rent it at full price, insured and guaranteed.”

  “For what purpose, Inspector? Can’t you get a vehicle from the local department? It’s just down the street. We’re not prepared to handle rentals. Budget Master is only six blocks away. They’ll be open first thing in the morning, I’m quite sure.”

  “There might not be a Budget Master in the morning, Mr. Wolfaardt. A white man, an Afrikaner businessman just like yourself, was killed two hours ago in Klipplaat. Stoned to death.”

  Lapidation: the black man’s sword, the white man’s dread.

  “Bloody Kaffirs,” he murmured, backpedaling.

  “A mob scene.” Mansell stepped inside. “A dozen businesses have been overrun. A white woman’s been taken hostage, and it’s spreading. If they reach Jansenville, we’ll have more of the same. They firebombed my car, and every police car that’s available is already on the road.”

  “But risk one of my cars? I can’t.”

  Mansell pressed forward. “You can rent me the vehicle, or I can requisition it. Your choice. You have five seconds.”

  While the proprietor wrote out the order in the half light of his office, Mansell pulled Delaney aside. “You’ll stay here tonight, at the inn next door,” he said, avoiding her gaze. “Leistner’s expecting a call. If you fail to make contact you’ll automatically be implicated.”

  “Don’t be foolish!” Delaney exclaimed. She shook free of his grasp. “By now, they know I was in that house with you last night. I’m already implicated.”

  “Aiding and abetting a suspected killer carries a minimum five-year sentence. You’ll tell the minister that you accompanied me under duress.”